29. Lacey
29
LACEY
THREE DAYS LATER
I step back from the mannequin, examining the drape of the silk dress. Irina's final design sketches spread across my desk capture the essence of what she wanted—elegance with an edge of defiance. The prototype needs something though. Maybe if I adjust the neckline...
A knock at my door interrupts my thoughts.
"Come in," I call out, still focused on the way the fabric catches the light.
"Someone is here to see you," Lenka announces.
"Send them in please," I say, reaching to adjust a pin at the shoulder seam.
Footsteps enter behind me. When I turn around, my hands freeze mid-motion.
A young girl stands in my doorway, her long black hair tinged with hints of red falling past her shoulders. Her round face holds sharp cheekbones that remind me painfully of Irina. But it's her rich brown eyes that strike me—they hold a quiet strength I recognize from the video interview.
"Taliya?" I breathe.
She nods shyly, her gaze drawn to the dress on the mannequin. Her fingers twist together nervously as she takes in the flowing silk.
Her hand rises, and then pulls back as if she's afraid to touch it. Her eyes stay fixed on the garment as she speaks in halting English.
"I... I still want to be model," she whispers.
My throat tightens at Taliya's words. After everything she's been through, she still holds onto her dream. The same dream I once had before life took me down a different path.
"You're very brave," I tell her softly, watching as her fingers hover near the silk without quite touching it. There's a hunger in her eyes that I recognize.
It's not for the beauty of fashion, but for what it represents.
Freedom. Expression. Power.
"No brave," she says, shaking her head. "Just... want to show others. Be more than before."
My hand instinctively goes to my belly, thinking of the life growing inside me. I want to build a world where no young woman has to face what Taliya did. Where dreams aren't stolen by monsters wearing expensive suits.
"That's exactly what makes you brave," I say. "You went through hell, but instead of letting it break you, you want to help others."
"We'll figure something out," I tell her gently. "Something safe. Something real."
Her eyes light up slightly at my words. She takes a small step closer to the dress, studying the intricate beadwork along the neckline.
Then she speaks in her native Tuvan—soft musical words that I don't understand. But I recognize the reverence in her tone, the way her fingers hover just shy of touching the fabric. It's the same way I used to look at designer dresses in magazines, imagining myself wearing them one day.
I take in Taliya's longing gaze at the dress. "Would you like to try it on?"
When she doesn't respond, I carefully lift the garment from the mannequin, mindful of the delicate beadwork. I hold it up against her slender frame. The silk would fall perfectly on her.
Her eyes widen and light up at my gesture. A small, hesitant nod.
"Come," I say, gesturing to the adjoining fitting room. "You can change in here."
I wait outside, my mind drifting to Irina. She would have loved seeing her final design worn by someone who understands both beauty and pain. Someone who refuses to let darkness win.
The door creaks open.
Taliya emerges, and my breath catches. The dress transforms her—the flowing silk emphasizing her natural grace, the beading catching light with each movement. But it's more than just the dress. There's a spark of joy in her eyes that wasn't there before.
"You look beautiful," I tell her softly.
Her cheeks flush and she smiles again.
"Come with me. Let's go talk with Vadim about having you work for Svoboda," I say, choosing my words carefully so she can understand. "As a real model. Safe."
Though she may not grasp every word, her radiant smile tells me she understands what matters: that she has a chance to reclaim her dream.
This time on her own terms.
I accompany Taliya into Vadim's office, watching her delicate steps in Irina's dress. The silk flows around her like water in the late afternoon light streaming through the windows.
Vadim looks up from his desk, his expression softening at the sight of us. To my surprise, he addresses Taliya directly in fluent Tuvan. Her entire demeanor transforms as they converse.
Her shoulders straighten, her gestures become animated, and a genuine smile lights up her face.
I can't understand their words, but their meaning is clear in Taliya's brightening eyes and Vadim's gentle responses. For a moment, I catch a glimpse of who she must have been before—a vivacious young girl full of dreams and determination. My heart aches knowing how close those dreams came to being destroyed forever.
Their conversation continues, punctuated by occasional laughter. Taliya's hands move expressively as she speaks, her previous shyness melting away. Finally, she bows deeply to Vadim and practically floats out of the office, still wearing Irina's dress.
"What did you two discuss?" I ask once she's gone.
"Her future," Vadim says, coming around his desk. "She'll be working as a model, though not for Svoboda."
I frown. "Not Svoboda? Where then?"
A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "A new company. One that will be entirely yours to run."
My breath catches. "What?"
"I'm thinking of calling it Eleftheria," he says. "It's Greek. For freedom."
"Why create a brand-new company?" I ask, still trying to process what he's offering me.
Vadim's fingers drum thoughtfully on his desk. "I've been doing some thinking these past three days about how to move forward."
"And?"
"Rutledge," he says, his voice hardening slightly. "I don't entirely trust that he's on our side."
I nod, remembering my tense meeting with the police captain. "He made that pretty clear. Said he'd bring down the full force of law on Svoboda if there's even a hint of criminal involvement."
"Exactly," Vadim says. "Which is why, to continue protecting people, we need a fresh start. A company that’s completely separate from Svoboda."
But something in his tone tells me there's more to it. The way his brows knit together, and how his fingers haven't stopped their restless drumming against the desk. I've learned to read these subtle shifts in him.
"But that's not the whole reason, is it?"
Vadim's eyes meet mine and I see the tension in his jaw. "No, zvyozdochka , it's not."
He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out an envelope, sliding it across to me. The letterhead bears the distinctive logo of L.A. Fashion Week.
My fingers tremble slightly as I unfold the letter. The words blur together at first, but certain phrases jump out: "...regret to inform you..." and "...unable to accept Svoboda's application..."
"They've barred us completely?" I whisper.
"Every single one of our lines." Vadim's voice carries a dangerous edge. "No explanation given. Just a polite rejection."
My stomach churns as understanding hits. "This must be Kirsan's doing."
"It is." Vadim comes around the desk to stand beside me. "Which is why we need something new. Something he won't see coming."
"A company that has no ties to Svoboda or the Stravinsky name," I say slowly, pieces falling into place. "One that appears completely legitimate to outside scrutiny."
"Yes. And who better to run it than a talented designer who left the industry to care for her family?" His hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "Someone whose potential has been forced to be forgotten for so many years."
Vadim reaches across his desk and slides over a thick folder of documents. My fingers trace over the embossed letters on the cover: "Eleftheria—Articles of Incorporation."
"Go ahead," he says softly. "Take a look."
I flip open the folder, scanning through the legal text. Most of it is standard business terminology that makes my eyes glaze over until I reach the section listing company officers.
My heart stops.
There, printed in crisp black letters, is a name I'd been denied for so many years:
Founder and Chief Executive Officer: Lacey Huang.
Not McKinney. Huang.
My vision blurs as tears well up. I know logically this makes sense—using my adoptive family's name creates distance between me and Vadim, making it harder for anyone to connect Eleftheria back to the Stravinsky bratva. But the way my heart clenches tells me this means so much more.
I try to speak but can't find the words. All these years being told that I wasn't really a part of the family, of feeling like an outsider who didn't belong...
And with a single stroke of his pen, Vadim has helped me claim that identity more firmly than anyone else could ever deny me of it.
"You were always Lacey Huang," Vadim says, his fingers tracing over the documents. "The fierce protector of Megan and Freddy. The devoted daughter who dropped everything to care for Clifton and Laura. Lacey McKinney was a name forced upon you by parents who abandoned you. It was always a mask of who you really were underneath."
My throat tightens at his words. He sees me—truly sees me—in a way that no one else ever has. Even the parts of myself I tried to hide.
I whisper, touching the printed name on the incorporation papers. "You have no idea how badly I've wanted this my entire life."
But something else stirs in my chest—a certainty I hadn't felt before. I take a deep breath.
"But it's not who I am anymore."
Concern flickers across Vadim's face. His brow furrows as he searches my expression, clearly unsure how to respond.
I reach for his hand, threading our fingers together. The pink diamond on my ring catches the light.
"I'm Lacey Stravinsky now."
His eyes widen slightly, and I feel his fingers tighten around mine. The silence stretches between us, heavy with meaning.
Vadim's entire body seems to soften at my words. The tension drains from his shoulders, and that dangerous edge I'd grown familiar with melts away. For a moment, he looks almost vulnerable—like the boy who once yearned for his mother's love.
"You want to take my name?" His voice carries a hint of wonder.
"I do." My hand takes his. "I've spent my whole life trying to figure out where I belong. But I know now—I belong with you. As your wife. As a Stravinsky."
He pulls me closer, pressing his forehead against mine. I feel the slight tremor in his hands as they cup my face. His breath catches slightly, and I realize he's fighting back tears.
His gray eyes lock with mine, full of an emotion that takes my breath away.
"I love you, zvyozdochka ," he whispers. "Not because you're carrying my child. Not because you're my wife. But because you make me want to be better than who I am."
My chest tightens at his words. No rehearsed speech or calculated declaration—just raw honesty laid bare between us.
"I love you too," I tell him, my voice trembling slightly. "Not because you saved me or protected me. But because you gave me the strength to become who I was always meant to be."
His thumb traces along my cheekbone, catching a tear I didn't realize had fallen. The tenderness in his touch makes more tears spill over. I pick up the articles of incorporation bearing the name I've been dreaming of having for my entire life.
"This is very sweet of you," I whisper.
"But?" he asks, tension creeping back into his shoulders as if bracing for what might come next.
I smile and shake my head. "No but."
Rising up on my tiptoes, I press my lips to his in a gentle kiss. He responds immediately, pulling me closer as if he can't bear any distance between us. The kiss stays soft and tender—not driven by desperate need or burning desire, but by something deeper. Something real.
His lips taste of coffee and promises.
As we kiss, my mind drifts through everything that's led us here—from that first heated encounter at Mrs. Klossner's, to losing Irina in Paris, to that dark moment we've shared on the stairs of Pankration.
We've both lost so much.
The bruises may have faded, but the emotional scars will always remain.
Yet somehow through all that pain and darkness, we found each other. We've grown stronger together. He helped me reclaim my identity while I showed him he's nothing like the monster who sired him.
Where once there was fear between us, now there's only trust.
Where there was doubt, now there's certainty.
He pulls back slightly, that familiar knowing smile playing at his lips. "I can hear you thinking again, zvyozdochka ."
"Can you blame me?" I trace my fingers along his jaw. "I'm just thinking how crazy it is that I found someone like you through the most insane circumstances. That somehow walking into that dry cleaner on what I thought was the worst day of my life led me to exactly where I was meant to be. Right here next to you."
His eyes soften at my words. I continue, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I can't wait to spend forever with you. To raise a family with you. We just need to get through what comes next."
"We will." He pulls me closer as his hand drifts to my belly, where the slightest hint of a bump is starting to form. "Together."